


Before

by llassah



Category: Tamora Pierce - Tortall series
Genre: M/M, Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2007, recipient:magic_at_mungos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-25
Updated: 2007-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-21 14:36:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/226300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/llassah/pseuds/llassah





	Before

His footsteps clatter in the empty streets, and he whistles the catch from the Ballad of Long Lankin. To an outsider, he looks careless, a target, unaware of any danger, or of being watched. Most outsiders are rapidly relieved of that misapprehension, along with, on occasion, their purse. Only on occasion, now, though- as king, he has to be respectable. He misses the pickpocketing, sometimes, the easy smile and the swift knife through the purse string, the flirting look as he unclasps the necklace. The danger there was only to himself; now, he has a responsibility. Now, if he slips, his people slip. It's enough to give him grey hair and a stoop at the grand old age of eighteen.

Ten knife fights, countless skirmishes, one truncated visit to the provost- the shackles were shoddy, the beaks tired- more blood shed than he'd care to think of, and the beginnings of a right fancy ear collection, and now he's on a level with old Peacemaker himself. And he still thinks of pickpocketing with nostalgia. Strange old world.

His nose itches, suddenly, the feeling of- of not quite _wrongness_ , but something out of place- writhes under his skin, whispering to him. The Dancing Dove's busy sounding, the lights all on except the alarm light in the top window, but still. Something- or maybe someone- is there, who shouldn't be. He sketches the sign against ill will, whispers a swift prayer to the Trickster- their bargain's a week past, but still, it might earn him some goodwill- slips in behind three of the veil dancers who work in Temple Square.

It all seems peaceful, the raised voices are jovial, not harsh, but he didn't get this far without a nasty suspicious mind and the unerring sense of the unusual. Stefan's in the corner, placid but watchful. He nods to one of the serving girls, goes over to Stefan, thanks the girl for the two tankards of ale she brings over. Stefan will tell him if anyone unusual is here, in his own sweet time.

"Pages will be here soon. Goldenlake's been given stable duty for napping in etiquette lessons, and Naxen the younger's been sneaking out to the stables to read the chapters he's missed. I know exactly how to bow to a Duchess, now."

"You'll have to teach me. Last Duchess I met, I nearly tripped over my own feet. Are there any visitors at the castle?"

He's not quite sure how to go about asking for information; his sense of something portentous is vague at best.

"One of the Scanran chieftains, who promises he can unite them all, and then become Tortall's ally. Turns out he hasn't been outside of Tirragen- just a third son with a taste for mischief. Got found out by Olau, the sly fox. Olau spun a tale about three made up Scanran Gods, asked for the impostor's opinion of it. Caught him in a trap like a rabbit in a snare."

George grins. Now Olau, there's a man who's worth knowing. Not now, perhaps- he's never sure whether to approach him or not, because Olau's too perceptive for his own good. Sharp as a tack, free of illusions, which explains why he likes the odd glass too many of wine.

"What happened to him?"

"Olau gave him a few lessons on Scanra, and sent him on his way. He'll be turning up as a servant in the palace, soon, no doubt. Olau has ways, and he must have took a shine to him. Rest of the palace were distracted; the shang Dragon's here."

It all clicks into place; the city breathes in with him as the sense of _now_ becomes clearer, sharper. He scans the tables at the Dove, looking for trouble, looking for _him_. A man's sat on his own in the corner, face partly shadowed. He has close cropped coppery hair, a pockmarked face, a nose only a mother could love. He carries no weapon. George can feel the grin spreading across his face, the opportunities for more mischief, more adventure calling him with a sultry smile and a breathy laugh.

"Liam Ironarm," he murmurs, watching him openly. When Ironarm looks up, he grins, winks and waits for him to finish his drink and make his way over quietly. The recognition in Ironarm's eyes tells him all he needs to know. He stands up, nods to the dragon, assessing as he is being assessed. No point to it really, more habit. He knows better than to tangle with Ironarm, there are that many songs of him and more being written each month.

"It's an honour," he says quietly, hackles risen, skin thrumming.

"You're younger than I expected," Ironarm replies, voice deep and amused. Not noble sounding, but more neutral with a hint of some old accent still tingeing his speech.

Stefan's watching with interest; he remembers conversations word for word, and the Dove's hushed a little bit more. Marek's got his back to them, talking quietly to Rispah, but his stance is tense, wary. The feeling of being watched is one he's used to; the wariness still hasn't left the people in his court, fear of another fight, dragging everyone in, hurting more of their people- _his_ people. Still, what they have to discuss has nothing to do with their battles, not yet, anyway. He winks quickly at Ironarm, grips wrists with him like they're old friends, and leads him up to his quarters with an arm slung around his shoulder. "They're still shy," he murmurs as he unlocks the door, checking that the thread he placed in the doorway that morning is still there. Ironarm follows, footsteps quiet. "The old king didn't go quietly."

"It's been an interesting year for you, George Cooper. Certain inns in the Lower parts of cities all over speak of little else," he says, standing in the middle of the room. George laughs, a little rueful. His back still twinges from the worst of the wounds the old Rogue gave him.

"I don't reckon the interestin's going to stop now I'm king," he says, noting how Ironarm's eyes lighten a little, how he nods, half grim, half excited. He lights two of the lamps in his room, offers him a goblet of wine. It's a funny dance they're weaving here, all the things that are unsaid littering the floor, controlling their steps. They talk idly about Corus, about how Ironarm wants to see the lower city. _I am the City,_ something in him whispers, some timeless voice coloured with detached amusement, and he has to force himself to pay attention to what Ironarm's saying, to ignore the little hints and teases his gift's sending his way.

They end up stood there facing each other, both poised as if ready for a fight, silence spreading, expectation following in its wake. "So mote it be," George murmurs, accepting it, embracing it. The Trickster laughs, and a shadow sweeps over him.

"I don't like being told what to do," Ironarm says, quietly, eyes a steely grey. George shrugs.

"I'm gettin' used to it. These things," he sketches a sign for what he has no words for, "happen, will it or no. I wriggle out of it when I can, but trouble knocks loud and long at both our doors. And it'll be knocking some more, soon. Should be fun."

He raises an eyebrow, smile hovering, lifting the right side of his mouth a little. "Fun?"

"It's an adventure. Course it's fun."

Ironarm's smiling openly, now, the tension in the way he holds himself disappearing, replaced with an easy grin and an almost slouch. "So mote," he responds at last. One of the lamps flickers, almost dies out.

"So you want to see the lower city?" he asks, the wine warming him a little. Ironarm nods, draining his goblet, setting it down on his table. Outside, the air is a little colder. They shimmy along the small ledge on the wall outside his room for a while, then drop down onto the street. They aren't observed; both of them know how to move quietly, and George relishes that, the feeling that the man next to him isn't going to need protection, or slow him down. To have the Shang Dragon on his side...

The buildings in this quarter are a shambles, all leaning into each other, into the street. Some are stonebuilt, some use the old wooden frame and clay construction. The cobbles are worn; some shine in the dim light from the windows of the houses. The streets are crooked, some curving gently, some bending sharply, useful for ambushes. The streets are quiet; the inns shut with the watchman's call. They climb onto the lower walls, careless as cats and rule the city by the moonlight. Ironarm's sure footed, walks on even the thin walls as if they were broad paths. George half dances, grins in the darkness. The Goddess shines brightly in the sky, showing him where to tread.

He tells Ironarm of his mother, of the temple, of the times he's sneaked into the palace, pretending to be a serving lad or a scholar, asking to read books on subjects that might not even exist. He tells him of the time he served King Roald and the Provost as they dined, and how the Provost winked at him as he left.

Ironarm tells him of his training, of his ordeal, of the time he went to Carthak and met a prince, a mage, there. There is an edge to his voice when he speaks of magic, and George senses fear in it, a little. Anger, too, and he has to wonder what happened between them, what Ozorne did. To have something he couldn't fight against, for all of his training, for all of the work he has put in is like making a sword with a flaw in it, a shatter point, like one of the smiths makes if you pay him pretty enough. Ironarm moves quickly from Carthak to Scanra, to the harsh wastelands and lawless tribes, then to the Bazhir and the sands that can swallow a man in seconds, the sand demons and the blistering winds.

George likes to listen to him. Ironarm chooses his words carefully, not stumbling over them as they rush to leave his mouth like he does sometimes. On the outer walls of the city, they walk side by side, their shoulders bumping. He feels gangly, feather-light compared to Ironarm, his awareness of him centred on his bulk, strength, how solidly he stands and how easily he can leap. "You could stick around," he offers as they stand under the willow by the bank of the river. Ironarm smiles, a little wistful. The moonlight takes whatever colour his eyes are meant to be, changes them to silver.

"I leave tomorrow morning. I'm not sure when I'll be back. There are people here I am keen to avoid."

He nods his understanding, allows his disappointment to show through a little. Ironarm grins, brushes his cheek with one hand.

"Don't looks so sad, youngling," he teases with a smile that sends jolts through him. "We have the rest of the night."

George nods, then, moving slowly takes a step towards George and kisses him, once, on the lips, tasting old wine a little. "We have the rest of the night," he agrees, pushing him back against the tree and kissing him again. They walk back a different way, down cobbled streets that have shadowed corners to kiss in, no one awake to hear their gasps and sighs. Ironarm kisses well, lazy and assured. When they get back to his rooms, they twine around each other in George's bed, each mapping out the other's scars, tracing them with fingers, lips, tongues, and when they are sated they sleep curled around each other.

He awakes sometime before dawn. Ironarm's stood in the middle of the room; he watches him go through drills of kicks and punches, movements flowing with fierce grace, all of his intensity as a lover transformed to viciousness. He makes a weapon out of every part of him, makes himself beautiful and terrible at the same time. When he stops, George feels breathless, unable to move. He shakes himself, smiles sleepily at him. "Mornin'," he says quietly.

"Rise and shine, sleepyhead," Ironarm almost growls. He grins at him, lies back, one arm behind his head. He almost says `make me,' but wouldn't put taking him at his word past Ironarm.

"Say goodbye properly," he teases, relaxing even more. Ironarm smiles softly, walks back to the bed.

"I'll be seeing you again, you know."

George studies his face, shadowed in the half light of the dawn. "Well, why don't you do somethin' more than `seeing' now, then," he suggests.

Ironarm laughs, kneeling on the bed next to him. "You know, sometimes you make a surprising amount of sense, Cooper," he muses, tracing a finger down his chest, light enough to tickle. It's a long time before George can think again to answer.

They walk to the docks together, both pensive. There isn't much to say when they're parting; Ironarm tells him to try not to get arrested, George makes a mock innocent face, they embrace and know that it isn't the last time they'll see each other. Not by far. As he walks among the fish sellers and flower girls of the market, he grins, step lighter, anticipation building again.

A kid stands in the market place, hair red as fire, eyes the strangest shade of purple, wide with wonder. He grins at him, makes a note of his face and slips back into the crowd, plans coming faster than his mind can untangle. "Until we next meet," he mutters to himself, steals an apple from one of the fruit stands. A merchant stands near him with a purse just peeking out from the side of his cloak. Maybe keeping his hand in wouldn't do any harm...

  



End file.
